Meet the Shoulder Critic

When people ask me about Learning to Say Goodbye, they usually want to know about grief, or my work as a pediatric end-of-life doula, or how I navigated losing so many people I loved in such a short span of time.

But the question that always makes me smile is: "Wait - so the shoulder critic is real?"

Yes. And also no. And also - it's complicated.

He's Been There Since Childhood

My shoulder critic first appeared when I was a child. I was an only child, and long afternoons stretched out before me with sun-drenched fields and patches of forest to explore. He came with me when we climbed over the rickety fence of our neighbor's garden to steal apples - in fact, I'm pretty sure it was his idea. We laughed and rolled in the grass together, plotted hiding places. He kept me company.

Back then, he wasn't a critic at all. He was silly, carefree, and had a wonderful imagination. Sometimes we'd lie hidden in the deep grass at the bottom of my parents' garden in what I called the Fairytale Meadow, and he'd tell me stories of strange creatures and elves.

But then I grew up. And with growing up came insecurities, self-doubt, careless remarks from classmates that stuck like gum. He picked those words out of my hair, one by one, and chewed on them so they wouldn't burden me. They made his stomach hurt. He always said he could handle a bit of pain out of love.

Over time, they changed him. He became cranky, distrustful, sometimes angry. He lost weight, became scrawny with skinny pale legs and pronounced knees. The shoulder critic was born.

How He Shows Up in the Memoir

In Learning to Say Goodbye, he appears and disappears throughout my journey through grief. Sometimes he wears a wrinkled business suit with tear-streaked mime makeup. Other times, a brown velvet tracksuit with rainbow stripes and yellow Converse. Once, he sat cross-legged on my shoulder with a tiny shisha (an Arabic water pipe), smoking apple-scented tobacco while I tried to sneak a cigarette.

He argues with me about signs from the dead. He calls meditation "bullshit." He disappears entirely when grief becomes too overwhelming - when my mother died, he was absent for months. And when he returns, he's both antagonist and companion, challenging every step toward healing while somehow being exactly what I need.

Why Magical Realism?

Here's what I learned about grief: it makes reality feel surreal anyway. Time moves strangely. You see signs everywhere. You feel presences. The world splits into before and after, and you're caught between them, not quite inhabiting either space fully.

So, when I sat down to write about loss, traditional memoir structure felt too... solid. Too linear. Grief isn't linear. It shape-shifts. It appears when you least expect it. It wears different costumes depending on the day.

The shoulder critic let me externalize what was happening internally - the voice that questions every feeling, challenges every moment of hope, collects every wound. He's the part of me that absorbed all the pain so I could keep going. He's the repository of my self-doubt. He's also, strangely, a kind of protection.

Making him visible - giving him costumes and dialogue and a personality - allowed me to argue with him. To see him clearly. To understand that he was trying to help in his own broken way.

Is He Real?

People ask me this all the time. And my answer is: he's as real as any part of ourselves that we carry around. He's as real as the voice in your head that criticizes your decisions. He's as real as the childhood version of yourself that still lives somewhere inside you.

I see him. I always have. Whether that's magical thinking, a coping mechanism, an active imagination, or something genuinely mystical - I honestly don't know. And I've learned to be okay with not knowing.

What I do know is that writing him into this memoir, making him visible and tangible, helped me understand my own grief in ways I couldn't have otherwise. And readers tell me he helps them understand theirs too.

An Invitation

If you're reading Learning to Say Goodbye, I'd love to hear: Do you have a shoulder critic? What does yours look like? What does it wear? Email me and tell me all about it at hello@learningtosaygoodbye.com

I have a feeling I'm not the only one carrying a miniature companion around - mine just happens to be visible.

Learning to Say Goodbye: A Memoir of Grief and Trust is available now in paperback and ebook. You can find it on Amazon, or learn more at learningtosaygoodbye.com.